


You Want It Darker

by stormwalkers



Category: Lockwood & Co. - Jonathan Stroud
Genre: 1950s, Angst, Drama & Romance, F/M, Heroes to Villains, Marissa is problematic goth gf #1, Mild Sexual Content, Origin Story!, Poor Life Choices, Toxic Relationship, Unplanned Pregnancy, mainly from Tom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:33:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28072506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stormwalkers/pseuds/stormwalkers
Summary: “So,” Tom said, grinning back. “This new side of you. Where’d it come from?“What new side?”“Sort of commanding.” He gave an awkward laugh, cheeks warm. “I don’t know. It scared me a bit."Marissa’s smile melted away like a teaspoon of salt in the rain. “Good,” she said.The story of a Listener and the Seer who loved her, but not enough to save her. Pre-series.
Relationships: Marissa Fittes/Tom Rotwell
Comments: 15
Kudos: 13





	You Want It Darker

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blulula](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blulula/gifts).



> Written for the 2020 Lockwood & Co. Discord Secret Santa! Anna, I hope you enjoy my take on the story of Fittes and Rotwell. My apologies for the lack of holiday cheer, but... maybe the right amount of angst will cap off this crazy year with some sweet catharsis.
> 
> Special thanks to Achilles Angst for being the best beta in town and for sharing his spectacularly sad Marissa/Tom playlists with me.
> 
> Merry Christmas, happy holidays, and, as always, thanks for reading.

* * *

_If you are the dealer, I'm out of the game_  
_If you are the healer, it means I'm broken and lame_  
_If thine is the glory, mine must be the shame_  
_You want it darker_  
_We kill the flame_

— You Want It Darker, Leonard Cohen

* * *

**Sevenoaks, Kent**

**1957**

Against his better judgment and despite numerous warning signs, Tom Rotwell had fallen hard for the Fittes girl.

Bad idea? Probably. Marissa was… strange. Intense. Some schoolgirls liked to play with dolls; she was the type you’d sooner find off in the corner, reenacting murder scenes or performing experimental surgeries on the things. She had no friends, rarely smiled and never laughed. She seemed to prefer the company of books to people—the older and more arcane, the better—and her large eyes were always reddened with sleeplessness. There were whispers that she spoke to the Devil at night.

In summary, Marissa Fittes was not a girl your mother would be thrilled to have over for tea.

But try telling that to a fifteen-year-old lad who’d just seen her blow a howling phantom sky-high.

Mud Lane had never been the site of anything particularly exciting. Its most notable feature was being perhaps the most appropriately named road in all of Kent, consisting of mostly wet muck and downtrodden grass. Parallel rows of drooping trees lined the road, bowing their crowns like hooded friars. Somehow, it all gave off a crushing feeling of loneliness and despondency.

Tom Rotwell didn’t know why he chose to steer his bike through Mud Lane on his way home that night. Later, he would ponder what might have happened if he’d gone by Dacre Park or Moxon Walk instead, or if he’d reached home before dark. Perhaps fate would still have led him to her—or perhaps history wouldn’t have been made.

It was foggy and cold out, and the whooshing wind in Tom’s face didn’t help. The cold bit through his clothes as he pushed the pedals, pricking at his skin like a thousand tiny teeth. Kent wasn’t usually so freezing this time of year. There was an eerie hoot somewhere among the dark trees, like a dying owl. He shuddered, feeling suddenly heavy…

He caught himself, shaking his head fiercely against the growing lethargy. And what he saw when he opened his eyes nearly launched him off his seat.

There was a man in the sky.

Tom’s wheels screeched and skidded, spattering his legs with mud and grass. _A man?_ Surely not. He must have been colder than he thought, seeing things in the sky. And yet…

His heart slowly descended to the pit of his stomach. The thing was getting nearer. It was a man, alright—or shaped like one. It floated through the night like white gauze on a black velvet backdrop, emitting a faint glow. It looked almost like a… No, it couldn’t be.

Tom paddled faster, increasingly short of breath. The cold was overwhelming now, and the thickening fog made it hard to see. The pale thing stalked on. There was a certain dumbness to its movements, like it wasn’t sure of its surroundings. But unlike most wild animals Tom had heard of, it clearly did not shy away from humans. In fact, it circled over him like a vulture circles over carrion, drawing ever closer.

And there was not another soul to be found on Mud Lane. If this creature was somehow attracted by warm flesh…

He cycled faster. And then—

_Squelch-squelch-squelch._

Were those footsteps? His pulse quickened, a drop of sweat trickling down his temple. Someone—or something—had arrived. Another creature? No—it was a girl. A short-haired girl in a pale green dress, well-worn jacket and heavy boots.

And she was running toward him like the devil was hot on her heels.

“Get away!” she cried in a booming voice. “You’re not safe here!”

He stared at the wild-eyed girl. A leather satchel was slung over her shoulder, and her pockets were bulky.

Above them, the thing swooped down and up like a crashing wave, and Tom lost his balance and skidded on the damp grass, flying off his bike and onto his backside. Extreme cold pierced his bones just as a wild howl ripped through the night, assaulting his ears. It was _not_ the cry of an owl. Looking up in horror, he finally caught more than a glimpse at the figure. The pale, shimmering, figure…

He didn’t want to believe it, but he was fresh out of explanations.

It was a ghost.

Tom shook his head like a dog coming in from the rain, trying to clear his muddied thoughts, when the girl grabbed him by the arm and hauled him upright. She produced a torch before thrusting her satchel into his hands, its contents rattling like a sack of chains. “Hold this.”

“What is it?” he asked, utterly confused. Then he took another look at the girl; slim and bony, cropped hair, eyes flashing with intensity…

“Something to spit your teeth into,” snapped Marissa Fittes, “if you don’t get out of my way!”

Tom gulped, flipped the satchel open and looked inside. Good God. They _were_ chains.

“No!” he cried. “That thing nearly did away with me! What’s all this about? What are these?”

Marissa shot him a fiery glare, furiously tapping her torch to no avail. “The psychic field. It must be messing with my light!”

“Psychic _what?”_

“Come on, then,” she cried, already setting off down the grassy path. “My parents’ summer home—there’s a shed with tools there.”

Tom’s legs seemed to move on their own, strangely compelled to follow her anywhere she might go. Particularly anywhere but here. He swooped up his bike where it had fallen and hopped on, Marissa perching on the carrier; off they went, ghostly screams bleeding out behind them.

The house turned out to be a short ride down Mud Lane, through swaths of tall grass and marshy puddles that spattered their wheels. And there was the shed, a rickety-looking thing with a door that creaked and groaned as Tom pushed it open.

“Right,” he said, panting. “What the bloody hell are we doing here, again?”

“Fetching weapons,” said Marissa, brushing her dress down. “Then we find ourselves a ghost. You know, I counted about four times you could have been killed back there. Nice work avoiding him.”

_“Killed?”_

“Do you see any lights around here?”

Mouth agape, Tom followed her eyes as they scanned the shed, dancing around the shelves and racks of gardening tools. There, on the highest shelf: a rusty lantern.

She grumbled, then turned to him. “Help me up, will you?”

He only blinked for a second before lacing his hands together for her. Stepping onto them, Marissa hoisted herself up with a practiced effortlessness that explained her skinned knees and scraped hands. This was not her first adventure.

Seconds later, the lantern was firmly in Marissa’s grip. As they turned to go, the satchel around Tom’s shoulders bobbed and shook, the chains inside clattering.

An idea came.

“Wait!” he cried, screeching to a halt and attempting to look like a warring hero who wasn’t about to cough up his lungs. He gave the satchel a pat. “Iron, yeah? It hurts them?”

Marissa frowned, but nodded.

Sensing an opportunity to make himself useful, Tom smiled. “Back in a jiffy.”

Tom Rotwell had always been told he had a head for innovation. The possibilities lined up in his mind, falling into place like a Roman cohort; all he needed was the iron pitchfork perched on the wall, a length of rope, and something he could use as a hilt.

While Tom did things with ropes and tools, Marissa spotted a white sack in the far corner—deicing salt for the roads. Just as he tied the last knot around the iron shaft, she scooped up a few glittering handfuls and deposited them in his satchel. Tom didn’t dare ask why; he had a feeling he would know the answer soon enough.

“Here,” he said, presenting his homemade sword like a triumphant knight before his queen. He’d snapped the wooden handle off the pitchfork and fastened its teeth tightly to the end of a rusty spade. The thing was crude and heavy, but useable. “D’you reckon this’ll hold him back?”

Marissa stared at him. Was that the beginnings of a smile on her face? It was a close thing, and something in his chest swelled with joy—and rampant adrenaline.

And so, armed with nothing but makeshift ammunition and hope, they went to face the screaming phantom.

Back on Mud Lane, the pale figure hovered high above the ground, its icy contours blurry against the black sky. Marissa lifted her lantern like a spotlight, and its terrible face lit up; wailing, it dove against them with sickening speed. A blast of freezing wind nearly knocked them off their feet. Deciding to hell with it all, Tom raised his homemade sword.

It was, in many ways, the strangest thing he’d ever done. Trying to pretend he was just play-fencing with Dad like he’d done as a child, he lunged and whipped and parried. The phantom screamed with every strike, dipping and dodging around Tom; tendrils of ghostly matter surrounded him as he kept the spirit at bay. The task was made a tad trickier by the spectral howling in his ears, not to mention the fact that his opponent was incorporeal.

Somewhere behind him, Marissa was shouting, too. “We need to find the source of the haunting!”

Dodging a steaming spray of unpleasant-looking slime—whatever the hell _that_ was—Tom cried, “What?”

Her voice carried over the ghostly wails with surprising force. “His thing! His special thing that tethers him to our world!”

“Unless that thing is a particularly shiny pebble or tuft of grass, I don’t see anything out here!”

“Wait—wait, I might have it!”

She darted past him, into the tall grass. Her boots audibly squelched in the mud as she neared her target: a rusty metal hatch, hidden among thick reeds. She wrenched the hatch open with the force of a warrior wresting a shield from a fallen enemy. In that moment, Tom may have been fighting for his life with nothing but a wobbly iron stick, but he had to take a second to marvel.

“A knife,” Marissa breathed. “He hid a weapon in here! It’s all corroded. Freezing, too… the hatch must have rusted so badly the iron lost its effect.”

“That’s great,” Tom shouted over the psychic noise. His do-it-yourself sword was tottering precariously, threatening to come apart. “Will it make this bloke die? Er, again?”

The girl had frozen in place the moment she’d touched the knife, entranced by the item. Now she snapped out of it. She gestured to the satchel he wore, filled with iron chains and salt. “Toss it!”

“ _What_ did you call me?”

“I said _toss it!”_

And so he did. The bag sailed through the air like a grenade, arcing as it found its target. The screaming spirit came apart in a rocky blast of salt and chain links, spewing hot splashes of slime that scorched the grass. A final psychic wail tore through the night. The two of them dove like soldiers in a trench, shielding their eyes from the carnage. Before he fell, Tom noticed Marissa clutching her ears.

An echoing silence fell over Mud Lane. Bits of burned grass whirled quietly. The ghost was gone.

Tom barely had a chance to clear his head and remember his own name before Marissa was back on her feet. From her pocket, she produced a bunch of dried purple flowers and a small packet of some kind.

“Matchsticks,” she said, her voice muffled by the ringing in his ears. Before he could say something intelligent like _Buh?_ , she continued. “Ordinarily, silver would do the trick.” She struck a handful of matchsticks at once, and her eyes gleamed at the flame. “But I’m not exactly swimming in riches, so fire will have to do.”

She held up the haunted knife, snapped off its wooden shaft and let the flames consume it. What was left of the rusted blade was carefully wrapped in a few remaining chains and bound with flowers.

Tom blinked. Marissa took a breath. The fire melted into the mud, blackening the night.

✷ ✷ ✷

The air was soft and very still. If not for the frantic pounding of Tom’s heart, you might have thought nothing out of the ordinary had happened at all.

He and Marissa sat together in the damp grass, staring into their laps, quiet as monks at prayer. Next to them, their weapons lay discarded. He found his gaze drifting to the strange girl by his side.

She really wasn’t much to look at, with the nose of an eagle, the cheekbones of a Great Dane, and the curves of an upturned broomstick. She looked nothing like the girls in the sticky-paged magazines Tom’s schoolmates kept under their mattresses.

And yet—her eyes sparkled like moon pools, and her skin looked soft. The fine hairs by her neck and forehead curled against her skin like a baby bird’s feathers. She picked at the hem of her green dress, which looked battle-worn.

“So,” Tom said, breaking the silence, “that happened.”

Marissa nodded. “Nice work you did. Tom, was it?”

“Yeah.” His cheeks warmed. “Tom Rotwell.”

“I’m Marissa.”

“I know.” He gritted his teeth, biting his tongue. “I mean, I’ve _heard_ —everyone knows everyone around here, like.”

“No, I know. Everyone in Sevenoaks knows of Marissa Fittes. I’m the town crackpot. It’s alright.”

“I wouldn’t go that far…” He cleared his throat, shifting where he sat. “So how’d you learn all this stuff? Iron and silver and flowers and all that.”

“Lavender, specifically,” she said. “Haven’t you heard? I speak with the Devil at night.”

Tom laughed, though he couldn’t actually tell if she was serious. “Shouldn’t we tell someone about this? If these… _things_ are as dangerous as you say.”

“Spirits.” Marissa gave him a look. “And no, we shouldn’t. Adults are useless, Tom. They wouldn’t believe in ghosts if a slimy spectre came up and moaned in their ear.”

“But _we_ know they’re real.”

Marissa’s eyes flashed. “Yes.”

“What about your mum and dad?” he asked. “Don’t they believe you?”

“They barely talk to me at all, unless it’s to threaten to lock me up.” She stretched her arms behind her back. “Maybe they will the day a phantom wraps its arms around their necks while they’re bent on pills and slow as molasses.”

Tom gulped. His parents were nice people, sweet and attentive and full of encouraging words. It seemed Marissa’s were less so. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“S’fine. It’s nice, you know. Having someone believe me.”

Then, Marissa Fittes smiled at him. The movement was subtle, unpractised, like she was just discovering a new muscle. A tiny dimple formed on her cheek. Above them, the moon shone.

A shiver raced down Tom’s spine, and it had nothing to do with the chilly weather.

✷ ✷ ✷

Their second hunt together came just a week later, in Cranbrook. There was a lovely cottage built on top of a painful secret, like a tumour in the belly of an otherwise healthy kitten. That secret turned out to be the bones of a highwayman known as Long Hugh Hennratty, strung up and dug down hundreds of years ago. The furrow of his broken neck matched his lopsided grin, his severed ankles resembling cloven hooves. Tom found he could see the ghosts more clearly than Marissa—secretly, he took pride in this small triumph—but with ghastly sights like Hennratty, he didn’t always enjoy this.

What he enjoyed was spending time with Marissa. Every moment they were together, every ghost they battled, he only came to admire her more. Full of odd theories on spirits and the “eternal essence” they were supposedly made of, she was never more alive than when she was near the dead. Or writing about the dead. Or talking about the dead… or talking _to_ the dead.

It turned out Marissa had sharper ears than most. Tom knew she could hear the ghosts they fought, was brilliant at deciphering their speech patterns; she would even catch full sentences on occasion. Where he only had his eyes and gut to go by, Marissa _listened_.

“I hear them more than I see them,” she told him one night, on the way home from a grisly encounter with a shape-shifting spirit in a forest glade. “Unless they get very close. The glowy spots they leave don’t bother me, either. Not like they do for you.”

“Yeah,” Tom said, not without a hint of pride in his voice. “Half the time, you have to take my word for it they’re even there. Why’d you reckon that is? That we’re different, I mean.”

“Perhaps it’s like a muscle,” Marissa mused, “that needs to be trained. Perhaps if you practised—and had the will for it—you’d be able to hear them, too. Anyway, since I was ever so young… I can’t remember _not_ being able to hear the dead. No one's ever believed me before.” She stopped, a rare flash of hesitation striking her face. She looked at him. “I talk with them, too, you know.”

“I’ve seen it,” he said, grinning. His cheeks grew unfairly warm when she looked straight at him like that. “It’s wicked how you draw out their words—“

“No,” she interjected, “I mean full conversations. Two-sided ones. Ones that got my parents so edgy they threatened to send me away. I think… I think it’s time that I show you something, Tom.”

“Show me?” His chest burned, his legs growing weak. “Show me what?”

“I want to share this part of myself,” she breathed, “with you. I want you to know me better.”

Two heartbeats, beating like swords on shields. They were all alone, by the edge of the woods. What could she mean? You truly never knew with Marissa.

Above them, the wind rustled the treetops; an owl hooted somewhere. All was quiet otherwise.

Then she pulled up the sleeve of her jacket to reveal a splendid bracelet set with jade stones. It sparkled softly in the night, and she looked at it reverently, almost hypnotised. Tom stood frozen, sensing the solemnity of the moment. His friend whispered something he couldn’t hear; a word, or maybe a name.

He would never forget what happened next.

A fan of golden light filled the air, bright enough to hurt his eyes—but it was not the light of the sun, or anything that lent itself to life. This light was of another world, one not meant for the living.

“Tom,” said Marissa, her voice warm with anticipation as if she were an artist unveiling her masterpiece. “I’d like you to meet Ezekiel.”

A breeze rippled. The spirit stirred.

✷ ✷ ✷

**1958**

If you’d told Tom Rotwell a short time ago that he would be spending nearly all of his sixteenth year hunting the restless dead, he would have laughed at you.

If you’d told him he would be doing it with Marissa Fittes—that she’d become his closest friend and partner—he would have promptly written you off as mad.

But it was all true, and it had been the most absurd and irrational and spectacular year of his young life. The two of them were gaining a reputation around the county of Kent. People were skeptical, of course… until they found their own homes visited by night. Calls came, cases were solved. And Marissa was always by his side, teaching him everything she knew about spirit-wards and ghostlore (well, when she wasn’t conferring with Ezekiel). His bike became her chariot, and together they’d ride into the night, on the hunt for restless spirits. He’d even hammered out a proper sword from scrap iron.

Yes, all of it was thrilling.

Even when the deaths came.

You see, as the ghosts multiplied, so did the bodies. Most were adults—too old to see, too slow to move—but there were children among the victims, too. They turned up in dank cellars, local museums, schoolhouses; one was even found lodged in a chimney like a fat rat in a drain pipe. All were bloated and swollen and blue like monsters in a horror picture.

With every new story, Tom became more shudderingly aware of what might have happened to him that night on Mud Lane if Marissa hadn’t turned up.

“Mrs. Northcott is dead.” He lowered the paper to look at his partner, who was jotting down notes for last night’s case—a weeping Victorian lady in a Dover churchyard. His room, far away from the judging eyes of Marissa’s parents, had become their office and home base; her lantern burned in the corner.

“Who?” Marissa didn’t look up.

“The curator’s wife, the one who runs Sevenoaks Museum. Was dusting off a Roman helmet when she got jumped by a ‘creeping shadow’, it seems.” He put the paper down with a sigh. “You know, stories like this make me feel even happier to be doing what we do.”

“Mh-hm. I’m glad.” She rustled her notes, pencil between her teeth. “Well, death’s in life, and life’s in death. That’s what Ezekiel always says.”

Tom grunted. Ezekiel, always Ezekiel. “Where are they when they’re not here, anyway? The ghosts.”

Finally, Marissa met his eyes. She swivelled her bracelet around her wrist. “In the place where the dead roam. A place much like ours, but… purer. Undiluted by the restrictions our world imposes on them. According to Ezekiel, it’s easier for them to communicate there.” Her eyes shone blankly, as if focusing on something far away.

Tom felt suddenly chilly. He wanted to talk about something else. He wanted his friend’s attention. Most of all, he wanted Ezekiel to piss off. Preferably into a furnace somewhere.

“Aren’t ghosts a bit simple, though?” he asked, trying for a lighter tone. “It’s always _‘I’ve lost my money,’_ or _‘I want revenge,’_ or _‘My husband’s got off with some bird,’_ with them. How much valuable information could they possibly give?”

Marissa fixed him with a biting stare. “It’s not just a person who dies, Tom,” she said. “Worlds die inside us.”

And that was pretty much the end of that conversation.

Two weeks later, as if to prove her point, Marissa took Tom to the Other Side for the first time.

The psychic circle had been laid out in a hidden corner of Mote Park, Maidstone; Marissa had been collecting haunted objects of varying strength for a while. Now he knew their purpose. She had also provided protective gear—hand-sewn capes with inlaid iron and wader-like boots that made Tom feel like a feudal lord gone fishing—and, as ever, he was ready to go wherever she asked of him.

She’d said the Other Side was a beautiful place, a place of discovery where that they would not be harmed; Ezekiel would keep them safe. Tom would not fully understand what she meant by this until later in life.

Mote Park was transformed. He tried to get a sense of his surroundings, but everything in that strange version of reality was twisted and bent; like attempting to read a map through the fat part of a bottle. Ice frosted his cape and chilled his nose as he followed Marissa.

In the distance, shadows. People, crossing the Great Bridge over the frozen lake. There must have been a dozen of them. But they didn’t move in a natural way, and you didn’t need Tom’s psychic eyes to notice. They came closer and closer, silvered shades floating above the ground…

He stopped. “Rissa, I don’t know.”

She turned to face him. Her eyes could have cut through the ice encrusting his clothes. “There’s that timid attitude again. Would you rather be stuck at some boring party, snickering with some boring mate of yours? Or keeping yourself company under a sticky duvet in your room? You have two choices: Do as I say and make history, or go home and do nothing.”

Tom met her steely gaze and gulped. But he only hesitated a little before following her, as he always had.

✷ ✷ ✷

Later, when he thought of that first trip, it wasn’t so bad. Brief, more introductory than anything. Compared to the hundreds of times he had been there since—or sent others in his place—it had been relatively safe.

Of course, that didn’t stop young Tom from nearly soiling himself the moment they crossed back over.

It was still dark, but a wave of warmth—living, breathing, blessed warmth!—overwhelmed him, shocking his heart back into motion. He grabbed at his knees to support himself.

“Where did we just go?” he huffed. “What _was_ that place?”

Marissa was calmly removing her gear, as unfazed as if she’d just stepped out of a relaxing sauna. “You know, Tom. Or can’t you guess?”

Silence. The truth of where they’d been seeped through Tom like slow-working poison, his mind awhirl with sudden understanding.

“That’s insane,” he breathed.

Marissa looked at him. “People have called me that since before I understood what it meant.”

“I’m sorry, I never meant to—“

“Don’t be. I’m not bothered.”

“It’s just… Rissa, this is huge. How many times have you been there before?”

The look on Marissa’s face told him he didn’t want to know the answer.

“We’re doing a great thing, Tom,” she said softly. “We’re uncovering— _experiencing_ —what no scientist or philosopher has ever been able to. Don’t you want to do something spectacular in your life?”

 _Does spending the last year running a ghost hunting operation not count as spectacular?_ he wanted to say. He’d had plenty of adventure before this new revelation. But he only said, “I suppose so.”

“I’m glad.” Marissa was smiling, and despite his lingering unease, that smile melted him to his bones. She was right; they _had_ done an incredible thing.

“So,” Tom said, grinning back. “This new side of you. Where’d it come from?”

“What new side?”

“Sort of commanding.” He gave an awkward laugh, cheeks warm. “I don’t know. It scared me a bit.”

Marissa’s smile melted away like a teaspoon of salt in the rain. “Good,” she said.

That week, nine cases of fatal ghost-touch were reported in _The Kent and Sussex Courier_. They said the Mote Park cluster was the deadliest ever.

✷ ✷ ✷

The following morning, Tom spent a long time staring at the bathroom mirror. Searching. Was that himself staring back? The boy in the mirror looked like him, stood like him, moved when he moved… Tom ran a hand through his mop of hair, wincing when the new white fronds became visible; the boy in the mirror did the same.

The sight of it scared him, and he felt like an idiot. It was a bleeding mirror! He’d looked in it hundreds of times. But if he was really seeing himself, it meant the dark thoughts swirling around his head were real, too. Thoughts of ghosts and death and wicked things; of that strange, cold place. What had Marissa called it? _The Other Side._ It seemed a weirdly neutral name for such an eerie place, so hostile and cold. But she probably didn’t see it like that… The way her voice almost trembled with passion when she talked about it, eyes shining like planets through a telescope.

The first sixteen years of Tom’s life felt like a distant dream. Marissa Fittes had changed him. And as he watched her powers grow, her connection to the Other Side strengthening by the day—he had a feeling he wouldn’t be the only one.

He’d heard those old Greek tales about the underworld, where the dead would cross a deep, dark river to their final resting place, a realm of shadows where no living person should ever go. That realm had a queen, he knew. A queen who wasn’t born there, but eventually came to belong, ruling over the dead with the might of a goddess.

Tom couldn’t untangle himself from these thoughts. Couldn’t untangle himself from _her_ —the dread queen of the underworld.

✷ ✷ ✷ ****

**1960**

When the first call came from London, Tom was ecstatic.

He and Marissa had been a duo for three years. Three years of working together, experimenting, writing the first ever rulebook on ghost-hunting—and yes, making a bit of money. They didn’t even have an official name, nor any sort of legal qualifications. With the government still refusing to accept the existence of ghosts, theirs was a private operation. But they had each other, and they had built a business all on their own.

Now that business was moving to the city. A girl had been seen dripping blood down the smart avenues of Cumberland Place; wherever she went, steaming red puddles were left in her wake. The girl had already claimed the lives of two binmen and several neighbourhood pets. A relative of a local woman they’d freed from a spectral child had made the call.

London was a bit far to go on bike, so they stuffed two duffel bags with iron, silver, salt and sandwiches and went by train. Marissa was all smiles at the station, chest puffed out with pride. Seeing her made Tom’s heart pound in time with the locomotives—which might also have something to do with the gutsily short skirt and high boots she’d donned that day. She wasn’t usually one to follow the latest trends, but…

“You look like a London girl,” he told her as they lugged their bags aboard. “You might have been born for this.”

To the detriment of his poor heart, Marissa actually _giggled._ “Thanks. I’ll have a posh flat on the Strand with a big wardrobe yet.”

“I didn’t think to dress nicely.” He looked down at himself, clad as he was in his usual jumper and slacks. They weren’t his worst pair, at least—they disguised the chicken-like appearance of his legs well enough. “You’re always one step ahead of me, aren’t you?”

“Not always,” she said as they found their seats. “Only most of the time.”

The doors closed, and the engine roared to life; the first of countless journeys to London had begun. They looked at each other and grinned.

He would have got out and personally pushed the train all the way there if it would keep her smiling and laughing like she did that day.

But Marissa Fittes rarely kept at one thing for long.

✷ ✷ ✷

Here’s the problem with falling in love: no matter how aware you are that it’s a bad idea, it’s as involuntary as the urge to pull a loose thread and as inevitable as watching it all unravel once you’ve started.

How did Tom know it was love? Because Marissa was coming undone before his eyes, and it hurt too much to be anything else.

On the business side of things, their time in London had been a great success. The Gory Girl of Cumberland Place had been dealt with, her blood-stained nightgown safely bundled in Marissa’s new silver net; the city was ripe for further investigations. But when Tom looked in his friend’s eyes, their usual fire had become a dull flame. Her “sessions” with the ghosts had become longer and more intense. She would stand motionless, lost in psychic conversation, for several minutes while he ran in circles around her. He sometimes worried she was literally frozen in place. Was it the ghosts here? Were they somehow different, harsher?

Or was it just her? Who she truly was? He didn’t know. He never could get into her head like the ghosts could.

Only after their first trip to Other London did Marissa give him a sign.

It had been one of their longer expeditions, through the dim streets of Plaistow. Tom’s eyes hurt from psychic strain; he could only imagine the ringing Marissa’s ears must be suffering. She’d been going on and on about ghostly matter and how much _purer_ it was on the Other Side. She wanted to find a way to extract and experiment with it, something Tom wasn’t convinced was even possible. Did she expect to milk the ghosts like cows? Politely ask them to deposit a sample in a cup? The idea was ridiculous. And, unsurprisingly, no progress had been made.

He hadn’t exactly been raring to go, anyway. In fact, he’d half hoped this part of the job would fade into the background now that they’d made a name for themselves. But stopping was not on the table, and Marissa had looked at him in that way of hers, so they’d gone.

Dawn was breaking, the last dregs of night fading with the rising sun. They hung their capes and boots to dry in the hotel bathroom.

“You alright?” he asked and immediately felt like a prize idiot. He’d worried about her for days, wasting hours interpreting her weary looks, and _that_ was the most poignant question he could think to ask.

Marissa stared at him. Time did strange things, looping and bending around them. He didn’t know how long they stood there. Then, almost before he registered it, she walked over and put her arms about his neck and did the last thing he’d expected.

She kissed him.

Her lips pressed hard against his, almost desperately. His arms instinctively wrapped around her, eyes falling shut. It was his first time kissing someone, but the pounding in his chest drowned out any worries about whether or not he was doing it right. There was just _her_ —her mouth, her hair, her hands. She pushed him back against the wall, her grip tightening like she was drowning.

A minute or an hour or possibly several days later, they drew apart.

“Fine,” whispered Marissa. She rested her head against his chest, feeling fragile as a fairy in his arms. “Now I’m fine.”

Tom just held her tight, choosing to believe it.

✷ ✷ ✷

It happened after the Case of the Highgate Terror.

An Upper Holloway hotel room, strewn with silver and iron and discarded clothes. Adrenaline left over from the mad thrill of the job. A tangle of arms, legs, tongues, teeth. Skin, hair.

Mutual need.

They fell back on the bed. Tom’s senses roared, his eyes growing starry; he buried his nose in the crook of Marissa’s neck, taking all of her in. He wasn’t sure what to do, exactly, or what she’d like. It didn’t matter. Some wild force had taken control of him, commanding his limbs like a starving lion. Any logical thoughts he might have had were long gone, racing downward along with most of his blood.

Marissa’s skinny arms were clamped about him, her thankfully short nails sinking into his skin, body drawn tight like a bow against his. The green stones of her bracelet dug into his shoulder blades. It hurt, but Tom didn’t mind. He wanted to savour every sound pulled from her throat, every rasp and roll and movement of her body.

Being this close to Marissa Fittes was something to be cherished.

Tom leaned into his friend, holding her as if she might slip away and disappear, as if she might be lost. A tide was rising, rising inside of him, a wave preparing for the crash—

And then it was over. Marissa’s warm body went limp in his arms, as if giving a great sigh.

Silence. The room was too hot, too small. Tom shifted awkwardly, suddenly self-conscious. He cursed himself. This was meant to be the most brilliant moment of his life. Marissa was _in his bed!_ Her arms and legs were wrapped around him. They’d just—

His thoughts were broken by a warm trickle on his cheek where it pressed against hers. He looked up—and saw something he never thought he’d see his fearless partner do.

She was crying. Tears crawled over her face with agonising stillness.

He wanted desperately to comfort her, but his hands were suddenly clumsy, his legs too big and heavy. His fingers combed through her short hair, tried to be gentle; but she just rolled over so that she was on top, and she closed her moon-like eyes and kissed the breath from his lungs.

✷ ✷ ✷

Weeks passed, and their reputation exploded. The calls kept coming, increasingly desperate voices from all over London trying and failing to describe what they’d seen or felt. The city was haunted by moving shapes, sinister sounds, and things that went bump in the night—all of which, of course, the government was still brushing off.

Marissa seemed to float through it all, tireless and driven, while Tom did his best to keep up. She worked constantly, hungry for knowledge, for the rush of breaking through to more spirits. Her eyes were rimmed with red; a family of mice could have used the bags under them as hammocks. Trips to the Other Side grew more and more frequent, and his partner was starting to seem eerily at home in that icy place.

But that wasn’t the worst bit. No, what really made Tom’s blood seethe was that Marissa’s late nights and early mornings were spent whispering with Ezekiel. Not Tom—her living, breathing partner—but _Ezekiel._ He’d thought she’d snapped out of it, but her exhaustion and vulnerability had simply been replaced with fiery dedication. There had been no repeats of their night together in Upper Holloway; he was beginning to lose hope she would ever let him that close to her again.

Was it because he’d seen her cry? It couldn’t be; she was stronger than that. She was the strongest person he knew. That’s how she was able to talk to ghosts and stay sane.

Or that’s what Tom chose to believe. He was choosing to believe a lot of things these days.

“Where’ve you been?” he asked one evening when she came in from her hotel room next door. They weren’t married; it wouldn’t be proper to stay in the same room. This did, however, come with the unwanted bonus of never knowing when _he_ was active. “We were meant to go over your research for the Morden case together.”

“Speaking with—“

“Ezekiel. Right. I should have guessed.”

Marissa frowned at Tom, and he sighed. A cold fire sprang up inside him every time her pet ghost was mentioned. The more it burned, the more inclined he was to give in to it.

He felt something move between them, like a gust of chilly wind—not a ghostly sort of chill, but maybe the ghost of a feeling. A memory. It made him want to put his arms around her and pull her in so close that nothing cold or lonely could ever come between them again. He would have…

Except he was starting to think the only cold and lonely thing between them was Marissa herself. He could blame the ghosts all he wanted—particularly that glorified gas lamp she dragged about—but in the end, it was Marissa who’d changed. Ghosts had become a part of her, and she a part of them.

Tom didn’t know if he was most afraid for her or _of_ her.

“What did that thing tell you, then?” he demanded. “You know I can’t hear them. What did it say?”

“Nothing.” Marissa sniffled, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. She looked even paler than usual, her sharp features drawn in the darkness.

“Don’t lie, Rissa.” His voice came out wobblier than he’d have liked, and he cleared his throat. “I see the way your eyes look when you talk to them. It’s like you’re possessed or something.”

His companion turned around and put her hand on the doorknob, the picture of cold indifference. And then? She smiled at him. Tom could not have read that smile if he’d studied all the languages in the world. In a way, he felt he was losing his grasp of the only language that mattered: theirs.

“Or maybe,” said Marissa, “it’s because I’m pregnant.”

The door fell shut behind her.

✷ ✷ ✷

**1961**

“I reckon Margaret.”

“Hmh?”

Tom looked up from the chain link he was polishing. “For a girl. What do you think?”

Marissa blinked once, then continued scrubbing a particularly resilient patch of rust—a thankless task. “I suppose that’s nice,” she said. “We’ve got to take better care of these things, you know. They sell rust remover that’s supposed to work wonders. My father used to use it all the time.”

Tom grumbled at the change of topic. “I just think we ought to start preparing for this soon.”

“Yes,” she said with an impatient roll of her eyes. “I _do_ like Margaret. It’s a pretty name.”

“So why did you sound more enthused about the bloody rust remover?”

Marissa let her chains drop to the floor, then stood up to stretch. She was barely showing yet, and what little of her skinny frame had changed was covered by a thick cable-knit jumper. “Because it has to do with our job, Tom,” she said. “As do our plans for tonight. I’ve conferred with Ezekiel, and the gear is ready—”

“I don’t want to go tonight,” he said firmly. “No matter what _Ezekiel_ says. And I don’t think you should either, in your condition.”

She stared at him, frowning. “My _condition?_ In case it’s slipped your mind, Tom, it was _you_ who put me in it to begin with.”

“Last I checked,” he grumbled, “that particular dance takes two.”

The glare Marissa shot him could have killed a baby deer. Silence fell between them; then she scoffed fiercely. “Alright, then. I’ve been invited to come to Downing Street tomorrow anyway.”

That made Tom perk up. “Downing Street?” he breathed. “A government summons?”

“I’ve just got the call. They want me there at my earliest convenience. It seems they’ve finally realised they have no other means of controlling the ‘Problem’.” She gave a laugh. “Last year, those same men were sat in their posh offices, having a chuckle at the mad kids from Kent and their ghost stories… Oh yes, they’re actually calling it _the Problem.”_

Tom frowned. “The Problem?”

“Frightfully mundane, isn’t it? Even the name is a denial of its enormity, of their helplessness in the face of it. How very British of them—already scurrying to suppress the danger.”

“If the government is acknowledging it, this is serious.” Tom’s voice was tuneless, as hollow as his heart. His insides had frozen over. “More people are going to die, Rissa. They _are_ dying. That isn’t… I mean, it’s not…”

“Our doing? Don’t be absurd. We do not control what the ghosts do, Tom. They act entirely on their own accord. They are dignified beings.”

 _Dignified beings who kill and maim,_ he didn’t say. “But we stir them up, don’t we? We make them want to cross over, go near the living. That’s what being in that awful place does, isn’t it?”

“And that is a beautiful thing,” she whispered, taking a step closer to him. “As they come closer to us, we come closer to the heart of their mystery. It is magnificent. Who knows what more we might learn from them?”

 _Who knows how many more children will be killed,_ he wanted to scream. _Don’t you care?_ But his breath caught in his throat, the words drowning, when she tilted her head up to his. Tom didn’t stop her, just stood still save for a slight tremble.

“We’ve gone too far,” he whispered faintly as she hovered over his mouth, the familiar brush of her warmth against his skin…

And then Marissa said, “If I wanted your opinion, I’d give it to you.”

The gut punch stole his breath away, and he nearly keeled over when Marissa drew away from him. “But—“

“I’m going to Downing Street tomorrow,” she said firmly, “and they _will_ listen to me. They know they have no one else to turn to. They’ll be clinging to my every word, Tom, like toddlers at their mother’s skirts.” She took a breath, her eyes flashing with glee. “Finally, they’ll _listen_.”

“What about me, then? I’m a part of this team, too.”

“Marissa’s smile fell away. “You know—I think it’s best that we don’t work together anymore.”

Inside Tom, something stumbled to the edge of a cliff and fell off. “You can’t be serious,” he said dumbly.

“We’re not kids any longer, Tom.” She sighed. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you pulling away lately. Face it. It was fun while it lasted, but our—well, _commitment_ levels simply aren’t equal.”

“I am wholly committed,” he sputtered.

“To me or the mission?”

He froze. His heart pounded as if it were trying to talk. Trying to shout. “I…”

“What, Tom?”

A pause.

Desperation led Tom to do something profoundly mad. His heart crawled to his throat, pulse throbbing wildly; it was a similar feeling to the very first time he’d raised a sword, that crudely fashioned blade, to a ghost.

He reached out and pulled her into him and kissed her. Fiercely. Desperately. He pressed his mouth hard against hers, pinning her small body between his arms—until Marissa’s elbow came down hard on his side. She all but growled as she pushed him away, catching her breath.

“Move off!” she snarled. “Things have changed, and you must accept that.”

“They have,” he agreed, clutching her shoulders. “But _we_ don’t have to. Not if you marry me.”

Her face turned the colour of a spectre. “Since I was a girl, people have said I’m cracked in the head,” she breathed. “Now I see it’s you who’s utterly insane.”

“I mean it, Rissa. Marry me. We’d be safe together—things could be normal again.” He tried for a smile. “Just like they were.”

“ _Normal?”_ Marissa scoffed. “Have you been asleep for the past four years? Actually, never mind—judging by your contributions to the team, you might have been.”

Tom shook his head. “You’re not usually this cruel.”

“I’m not being cruel. I’m saying you’ve got a ridiculous idea into your head. You could never stand being weaker than me, and now you’re trying to reel me in to feel powerful. Did you think I’d marry you for _her_ sake?” She touched her belly with claw-like fingers.

“For _your_ sake,” he cried. “And for ours. All three of us.”

“It’s been fun, Tom.” Her voice could have chilled a frozen lake. “But I don’t need you.”

Tears pushed stubbornly at his eyes, and he blinked them away. “I need _you_ ,” he said. “You’ve changed me. You don’t get to change someone and then leave them in the dust.”

“I’m going to change the whole country,” said Marissa. “Maybe the whole world.”

“Sod the world. What about us?”

She groaned, as if she was talking to a particularly dense toddler. “This is so much bigger than _us_ , Tom. What, did you think we’d be together forever? That we’d start up a nifty little outfit, call it _Fittes & Rotwell?_ That those silly adolescent games of ours would go on and on?”

“I thought we’d be a family.” There was no air left in him, no energy to laugh or cry or scream. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“Please.” She glared at him. “You’ve only slowed me down.”

He snorted, incredulity making him bold. “I should bloody well think so. You’re carrying my baby.”

That’s when Marissa struck out and grabbed him by the throat, her small fingers crushed against his windpipe, his back pushed up against the wall. The abruptness of it nearly knocked him off his feet. He stared at her, eyes bulging in their sockets; tried to breathe. Her pupils were dilated, black as a lunar eclipse.

She wouldn’t kill him, he knew. If he died, who would she crow at? No—she wanted him to see her succeed, see her triumph over him. But Tom would challenge her. For the rest of his life, he would fight her. Even if the part of him that still adored her squirmed and writhed inside him…

It was always going to end like this.

“Did I—strike a nerve there?” he croaked hoarsely.

“The hell you did.”

“Our child.” His voice was a gargled cry, cutting in and out. “Margaret. My—Margaret. What will you—do with her? You can’t—can’t raise her alone. People are going—to talk.”

“Let them talk,” Marissa snarled. “And she’s not _your Margaret._ It’s my body. _You_ invaded it.”

“You wanted it—just as much—as me. Don’t—lie.”

“We all make mistakes. It just so happened that this one left a mark.”

“You—you used to be—so kind.”

“Yeah, well, the world isn’t getting any kinder!” she cried. “A new era is coming, and weakness is not an option. I want to build something that can’t be broken. And you, Tom Rotwell—” She paused, her words frozen in the cold air between them.

“What? What about me, Marissa?”

“You can be broken.” Her voice had sunken; she sounded decades older than her nineteen years. Repulsion flashed in her dark eyes. “You already are.”

With that, she let go of his throat. The freezing wind groaned, sending a shudder through Tom’s bones as he coughed and hacked. He stared at his friend, his Rissa; her skinny frame and feathery hair, the innocent face that seemed to have aged a hundred years overnight…

That rotten bracelet around her wrist.

Marissa might be a remarkable Listener, but Tom could See. And he saw her now for what she was. The wide-eyed girl with the lantern was gone, and in her place was a cold-blooded woman; a stranger. Standing there with her back straight and her eyes shining, she nearly had an air of immortality about her. Immortality… or ghostliness.

Tom’s mind whirled, his eyes swimming in their sockets as he realised the truth.

It wouldn’t matter what he did from now on. Marissa Fittes would always be one step ahead. She would always win in the end.

In some utterly sick way, he was happy about it.

And finally, Tom Rotwell spoke. He choked out the only words he had left—the only words that had ever truly mattered to him. They were a confession, and they were a goodbye; they were a plea for mercy. He looked into her laughing eyes as he said them.

“I love you.”

Marissa’s reply was a snort.


End file.
